Chores. She needed to finish her chores before she could think about anything else.
Josie started to move, but then decided to allow herself the small luxury of one more minute watching the sunrise before heading into the barn. Fingertips of sunlight outlined the stable and a fenced-in pasture area. Golden and pink light sketched into the fleeing night sky, making the world glow with possibility.
If Josie lived to be a hundred, she’d never get over the beauty that was the rise and fall of the sun each day. A reminder that everything had a beginning and an end—a marked-out time—that she had no control over. But God did. He knew and nothing happened outside of His care. Didn’t the Bible say there was a time for everything? A time to cry, to laugh, to rejoice. God was in control.
Some days she almost believed that.
Josie traced her fingers over the large dent and scratches along the side of her truck; most of the bronze paint had started to peel off in that area. It didn’t look pretty, but she wasn’t going to waste money fixing it. Not that she would have had the money even if it desperately did need to be fixed.
When they’d purchased the truck as newlyweds, Dale had often kidded her that the bronze clashed with her auburn hair. Foolish man. He never did understand what the word clash meant in a fashion sense. She shook her head, suppressing the smile that pulled on her lips whenever she thought about their early days together. The good times.
Don’t think about Dale. Don’t cry.
Her throat clamped and she blinked back the burn in her eyes. Texas dust. That was all it was. The dust.
After paying off the gambling debts and back taxes she’d discovered after Dale’s funeral, she’d had to sell their home and most of their married belongings. All but the truck—she got to keep it because it was paid off. The vehicle was all she had left of her and Dale’s life together.
Her hands automatically dropped to her expanding midsection.
The little person growing and moving inside of her begged to differ about the truck being the only piece of their marriage left. Tears found their way to her chin. The irony of her situation—almost six months pregnant and a husband buried just less than that—tore at her heart. The week before he was gunned down on the job, Dale had started packing to leave her. He’d wanted a son—a child—and in ten years of marriage, Josie hadn’t gotten pregnant.
She hadn’t been enough to keep Dale happy.
Now none of that mattered. He was gone and they were having a child. A child she’d raise on nothing. With no husband, no man to help with chores or bring in a paycheck or hold her when she wanted to fall apart and cry.
For the rest of her life...alone.
“We’re going to be okay, lima bean.” Her voice broke on the nickname. “Hear that?” She rubbed her belly. “Don’t mind your mama’s tears here and there. The doctor tells me that’s all part of being pregnant. Emotions. Lots of ’em. So don’t let them worry you at all. They don’t mean anything. You and me are going to be just fine.”
If she kept repeating that, maybe it’d be true.
* * *
Heath glanced at the screen on his GPS. Almost there.
Over the phone, Flint had given him the name Josie Markham along with her address and sent Heath off to “go along, now, and do your investigating.” Knowing Flint, Heath was fairly certain the man hadn’t given Ms. Markham a heads-up that a Ranger was on his way over. No matter. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d shown up at someone’s home unannounced, and it sure wouldn’t be the last. It went with the job.
Wind whipped through his windows, carrying the scent of dirt and cattle and something musty—stale water. Decay. A low river. They’d had a dry summer and not much more rain so far that fall, either. Later in the day, the high would sit in the upper sixties. Cold by Texan standards, but Heath liked the fresh air. He’d always choose fresh air over the vented stuff.
Heath pulled onto a small dirt road, dust swirling behind his truck. At the end of the road, the ranch that greeted him left something to be desired. Could it even be called a ranch? A small cabin perched on the edge of a meandering river. Cattails encircled the opposite side of the water from the cabin and there was a tiny dock, good for launching a rowboat or canoe. It would also make an ideal fishing spot. Too bad Heath wasn’t much of a fisherman.
There was a large SUV-type truck parked beside the cabin. It sported a dent almost big enough for a person to hide in along the passenger side. No way that door opened anymore. Recent crash? The lack of rust said so. Was someone still driving around in that thing? It couldn’t be safe.
Behind the cabin was a barn that had seen better days. Heath parked his truck, stepped out and ducked past the cabin to get a better view of the rest of the land. Scratch his original thought—the barn had seen much better days. The thing looked liable to fall down in any stiff wind, probably smashing whatever poor animals called that place home in the process.
Right when Heath was about to turn toward the cabin, he spotted a petite woman coming out of the barn, struggling as she huffed and puffed behind a creaking wheelbarrow.
His long stride ate up the distance quickly. “Here. Let me help.”
The woman set down the handles, balanced the wheelbarrow in the soft earth near a grassless pen and swiped sweat from her forehead. One of her fingers poked through a hole in her worn-out work gloves. The nail polish on it was chipped, but purple. Her hair color fell somewhere between red and brown. She had it pulled up, but it must be long to make that gigantic bun on her head. He never understood how women were able to get it to look that way, all piled on top... Didn’t it hurt? Wasn’t that much hair heavy?
The woman—Josie Markham, according to Flint—set her hands on her hips and scowled at him as if Heath were a spider on her wall. “What can I do for you, Officer?” Her tone said she didn’t really want to do anything for him. Ever.
He raised his eyebrows.
She heaved a sigh. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion. She grabbed at the collar of the light green shirt she wore, fanning it to cool herself down. “White hat. Boots. White starched shirt. And that belt’s the type they only issue to Texas Rangers.” She gestured toward his holster. “I hope you weren’t trying to be undercover.”
“Good eye.” He extended his hand. She narrowed her gaze but shook it. “Heath Grayson. I’m a friend of Flint’s.”
In the space of a heartbeat, her hesitant expression vanished and was replaced by wide-eyed concern. “Did something else happen at the ranch?” Her lips parted to suck in air and her skin went paler than it was naturally a moment ago. Josie had one of those the rare types of faces that didn’t age—she’d look young forever. Even though she was probably nearing thirty, she could pass for eighteen.
She shifted from around the wheelbarrow. “What are we waiting for? If something’s wrong, let’s go.” She started toward her truck.
Once she moved away from the wheelbarrow, he saw her stomach. Pregnant. Very pregnant. That fact wasn’t a maybe or a possibly—it was a certainty. Flint had mentioned Josie was widowed, but he’d left out the little detail that she was with child. So, a recent widow.
Had she been in the barn alone...doing chores?
Heath imagined his sister, Nell. She’d been married to a fireman a few years back. Bill. A loser. He’d cheated on Nell and left her alone, pregnant with their daughter, Carly. Even the reminder of the man caused Heath’s hands to bunch into fists. Heath had always wanted to march up to Bill and give him a piece of his mind, but Nell had forbidden any such nonsense. His younger